


College AU

by romanoff



Series: snippets/WIPs [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 10:09:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15604008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanoff/pseuds/romanoff
Summary: Snippet for as of yet unfinished 'college AU' set in Boston.Steve Rogers is looking for an apartment. Tony happens to have five free bedrooms.





	College AU

**Author's Note:**

> When I'm bored/lack inspiration, I upload all my WIPS and let people select which ones they like best. So, let me know if you like!

“It’s a statement,” Steve says, mouth dry, hand wet, drink rapidly growing warmer by the second. “It’s like — counter-cultural. The cow represents capitalism, and we’re all sucking on her teat. Also the farmer is God, maybe. Because he’s just going to kill the cow anyway, but is keeping it docile, because that’s what religion does. I think. Uh.”  
   
The girl looks distinctly unimpressed, chewing gum rapidly, jaw working like a lawnmower. “So you’re, like, a vegan,” she says, blowing a bubble. “That’s cool.”  
   
“No, I’m not — I think I mixed my metaphors,” Steve begins again. “The cow is the incessant call of material gain to benefit the top 1%, but also, like, completely separately, it also represents religion. Probably the Catholic church. And that’s why it’s standing in the poppy field, because Marx said — “  
   
“Yeah, right. Cool.” The girl is looking over Steve’s shoulder. “You know, my friend said she’d be back…”  
   
“She’s with Bucky,” Steve mutters, which is stupid, because if you’re going to mutter in a club you might as well save yourself the trouble and just shut up.   
   
“What was that?” The girl shouts over the music, leaning in. She smells like strawberry gum, cheap perfume, and sweat. Her hair tickles Steve’s shoulder.  
   
“Nothing,” Steve says, only slightly bitter. “She’s with — Bucky, you know. Bucky, my friend. She won’t be back.”   
   
“Oh,” the girl says, leaning back. Steve knows what happens next. She stands around for a few minutes, maybe plays an app on her phone, texts a friend, or even worse doesn’t, and then just makes an excuse to leave anyway. Steve decides to spare her trouble.  
   
“It was nice meeting you,” he says, stupidly, ridiculously formal. The girl smiles sweetly, probably relieved he was letting her off lightly.  
   
“Sure. I’ll see you around some time!”  
   
“Sure. I’ll — “  
   
And she’s gone. Subsumed into the hive of human activity that is the main floor. Steve is wondering why he agreed to come here tonight. He’s running over the past five hours in his head and trying to figure out _exactly_ how Bucky convinced him that this was a good idea. There was an exhibition this evening. Steve was — he’d said he was going to go to the exhibition. His professor had mentioned that a critic from the Globe was going to be there, and okay it’s not exactly the upper echelons but you have to start somewhere, and standing in the corner of a bar talking to a girl about sucking on the teat of a shitty papier-mâché cow probably isn’t how Picasso had his big break.  
   
“Steve!” Bucky calls, and he’s got his arm around this girl — the other girl, the one he had arranged this date with, the one who said her friend was lonely and so Bucky had graciously volunteered Steve as company. “We’re gonna — hey, watch where you’re going! We’re going to head back, so — “  
   
“Great,” Steve says flatly. “That’s — fantastic. Back where?”  
   
“To your place. That’s okay, right?” And Bucky’s brow furrows, like for a moment he’s realised it might not be okay that he wants to take his date back to Steve’s dorm room with only one single bed and a roommate who — although Steve’s never met him — might turn up and find them fucking at any given moment. Like he’s realised it might not be okay to travel to Boston on leave to visit your best friend and then spend the weekend pulling him from bar to bar.  
   
“Yeah,” Steve sighs, “that’s okay.”  
   
“Are you sure?” And Bucky’s brows have knitted themselves completely together, like he’s suddenly terrified that he’s upset Steve more than Steve can handle.  
   
“I would never lie,” Steve lies.   
   
“Okay, well you’re the best, and I’ll see you back at the room, right! Except — maybe tomorrow. Tomorrow, yeah? You have somewhere you can go?”  
   
“Sure,” Steve says, and again, just to clarify: absolute lie. “There was a — an exhibition. I could always go — “  
   
“That’s great! Yeah, go to the art thing. Oh, here, for the drinks.” Bucky pushes a handful of bills — probably not enough — into his hand to cover the cost of their party last night. “Don’t ask where I got it. Buy yourself something nice!”  
   
“Great,” Steve says flatly. “I’ll just — “  
   
And he’s gone.   
   
Steve should leave now. Any longer and he’ll start to get pitying looks. He has nowhere to go, but that’s besides the point. It’s Boston, there’ll be some 24-hour cafe somewhere. He could kill for some waffles, as long as they were gluten free. He thinks about his mom, suddenly. The fact that she’s alone in an apartment in Brooklyn, and he’s alone in a club full of people. He wishes, desperately, that he could be back home.  
   
He migrates to the bar to look busy. Make it look like he’s waiting for someone, even though there’s no one. He orders a vodka and coke and leans back, carves out a space among all the people, and tries to look casual. When he’s finished his drink, he’ll quietly slip out, and everyone will be too off their heads to even remember he was ever there, which is both comforting and incredibly depressing.  
   
He’s doing a better job then the guy dancing in the middle of the floor, though. There’s a wide berth of people just avoiding his flailing limbs, and he’s twisting glowsticks around his head like a maniac, swinging his hips and jumping up and down. People call Steve old-fashioned, but even by modern standards the dancing is pretty fucking awful. He’s wearing a sweater. Who wears a sweater in a club?  
   
The boy sees Steve staring and he grins. Even in the low light, Steve can make out he’s completely out of his head. His pupils are blown, his face is shining with sweat, he looks like he’s one misplaced glowstick twirl from passing out. “You want a drink?” Steve asks, out of genuine concern for his wellbeing, and the boy gives him a thumbs up, hops from foot to foot — still dancing — and then chugs the bottled water in one swallow.  
   
“Thanks,” he rasps, grinning some more. “Hey, your eyes aren’t really melting out your head, right?”  
   
“I don’t think so.”  
   
“Cool, cool. You dancing?”  
   
“Maybe you should give the dancing a rest.”  
   
“Nah,” the boy huffs. “Do I — do I know you?”  
   
“I don’t think so.”  
   
“I think I know you.”  
   
“Maybe I just have one of those faces.”   
   
He doesn’t.  
   
“No, I’m sure I — Kevin, right?”  
   
“No. My name is Steve.”  
   
“Steve? Nice. I’m Tony, by the way.”  
   
He hadn’t asked. “Okay.”  
   
“If — if a guy is looking for me, he’s like — “ Tony gestures with his hands, standing on his tiptoes “ — this tall? Black, wearing a white T-shirt, you never saw me, okay?”  
   
“Okay,” Steve says, even though Tony isn’t exactly inconspicuous. “Why are you hiding?”  
   
“No no I’m not hiding, just — what time is it?”  
   
“Almost 1AM.”  
   
“Great. Thanks for the water. I’m really buzzed. And my name is Tony.   
   
   
   
“HAVE YOU SEEN A GUY?” The man is shouting, although Steve can only just about hear him over the music. “HE’S LIKE — “ he gestures with his hands “ — THIS TALL. BROWN HAIR, WEARING A RED SWEATER?”  
   
That could describe any single average human in the bar, but Steve figures he knows which one. “WITH THE GLOWSTICKS?” He screams back, waving his hands wildly in what he thinks is  a mild approximation of dancing.  
   
“THAT’S HIM!” The guy nods, “YOU SEEN HIM?”  
   
“YEAH. HE WENT THAT WAY.” Steve points out the minor trail of destruction that’s followed Tony all the way to the toilets where is sounds like a fight is breaking out. “HE SAID HE NEEDED HELP.”  
   
The man’s eyes widen. “HELP?” He screams “THANKS, MAN, THAT’S — THAT’S — TONY! TONY I’M COMING TONY!”  
   
The guy pushes through crowds of people, and Steve wonders if   
   
   
“HEY!” Someone calls, and Steve just knows it’s for him. “Hey, you — from the bar. Do you have a car?” It’s the   
   
   
   
“Hey – you,” Steve says, mildly surprised to see the guy with glowsticks and sweater looking presentable, a mere 12 hours after he last saw him trying to shove a luminescent baton down his throat.  
   
“Me?” The guy – Tony, Steve remembers – asks. “What about me?” He looks mildly irritated, like Steve has interrupted him in the middle of something important.  
   
“Yeah, we – met. Last night. You were in the club. You were wearing a sweater? There was a guy, looking for you.”  
   
“Someone stole my money,” Tony says, seemingly not recognizing him. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”  
   
“Afraid not,” Steve lies. “But – hey, you got home alright? And your friend found you, I guess.”  
   
Tony’s lips twist downwards, and he squints. “Do I know you?” He asks. “Sorry, I just – really can’t remember.”  
   
“I got you water. We talked. You said you were really buzzed, and your name was Tony.”  
   
“Huh. Can’t get you at all. What did you say your name was again?”  
   
“I didn’t. It’s Steve.”  
   
Tony stares at him blankly.  
   
Steve sighs. “You called me Kevin?”  
   
“Oh! Oh, Kevin! Yeah, hey Kev.” Tony claps him playfully, just a little too hard, on his bony shoulder. “Wow, that’s like – slapping a skeleton, huh?”  
   
“Thanks,” Steve says flatly. “Well, nice catching up.”  
   
“Woah woah,” Tony laughs, “slow down. Sorry, I didn’t mean – hey, it’s chic now, right? You’re probably like, some super vegan…”  
   
“No.”  
   
“Oh. Well… maybe you should go to a doctor then, because you’re crazy skinny.”  
   
“Yeah. I have health issues.”  
   
“I’ll bet you do.” A brief pause; Tony checks his watch. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Kevin.”  
   
“Steve.”  
   
“Whatever. Have a nice life. I probably won’t be seeing you around.” He hikes his bag on his shoulder, and makes to leave.  
   
“Asshole,” Steve mutters to himself. What a fucking tool. _You should go to a doctor, you’re crazy skinny._ Me and what health insurance? Steve knows what kind of guy Tony is. Probably has a trust-fund, maybe daddy is alma mater, he probably lives in the fucking Hamptons, or even worse, Malibu, and scrapes by his classes with straight Bs because he knows he’s got a job in the firm as soon as he graduates. He doesn’t know shit. He’s sheltered, clueless, a perpetual asshole –  
   
“Hey,” Tony says, turning on his heel. “Hold on. I heard you, last night, talking to that guy. You said – you were looking for a new apartment.”  
   
Steve stares. “You don’t even remember my name,” he says, shocked. “How the hell did you even – hear that?”  
   
“I hear a lot of things, I don’t process them all at once. What was that, you still looking, or…?”  
   
“I’m not _looking._ I just said my apartment was a shithole.”  
   
“Yeah, but the implication was, if something better came along, you’d go for it, right?” Tony trunches closer, sets his bag back on the fountain’s edge. “Here,” he says, unzipping, pulling out a leaflet. “I own the building. Long story, I told my dad I was renting it out to friend and I, uh, _wasn’t._ So anyway, he’s cutting me off, says I have to rent it or no more money for my… projects, which is – look, I don’t really like sharing my space. But it’s a good building, clean, safe, nice neighborhood. I’m very selective. You seem… untroublesome, you know? Like you don’t have many friends, wouldn’t be throwing any wild parties, etc.”  
   
“Wow. Thanks,” Steve says flatly. “I know the area. This would be… wildly out of my budget. So thanks, but no thanks.”  
   
He hands him back the leaflet and Tony pushes his hand away. “What’s your budget?” He persists.  
   
“$1000.”  
   
“A week?”  
   
“A _month.”_  
   
“Shit, really?” Tony looks conflicted, momentarily. “Well, then the room is $800.”  
   
“A week?”  
   
“No,” Tony says, now looking annoyed. “A month. Didn’t we establish we were talking months?”  
   
Steve stares at him. “You’re crazy,” he blurts, “are you fucking – are you serious?”  
   
“As cancer. I mean it,” Tony urges, “come check it out. I’ve already got some others moving in. You can take the first floor apartment. Basement apartment has four bedrooms, I’m just renting those out, two apartments on the first floor, you can take one, and I own the penthouse. But if you like living where you’re living, and commuting is a joy for you…”  
   
“This is a joke,” Steve says, figuring it out. “This is some kind of prank, right? Hazing? I turn up, and you have a whole group of druggie friends, and you tie me up and beat me with a baseball bat like a piñata?”  
   
Tony blinks. “Dude, what the fuck? Are you speaking from experience, or what? Is that some kind of fantasy? I think you’d be a good tenant, and I don’t give a shit what you pay. You can pass it up, I don’t give a fuck. Just come and check it out.”  
   
   
   
“Tony!” The man is screaming, banging his fist on the door. “Tony, open up right now you – you fucking pissant! I swear to God, Tony, I – you!” He snarls, pointing at Steve. “Who the fuck are you?”  
   
Steve momentarily forgets how to speak. The man is old, sure, maybe sixty, pushing seventy, but he’s tall, and could probably take out Steve with a punch. He holds up his hands, shrugs. “Woah,” he says, “I just live here.”  
   
The man narrows his eyes. He looks familiar, Steve thinks. Where has he seen that face? “You live here?” He asks, slowly. “You’re… a tenant?”  
   
“Sure. Since yesterday. Haven’t really finished moving in all my stuff yet, but I’m getting there.” He holds up the bags in either hand as proof, stuffed with books and pillows and work.  
   
“Oh.” The man seems to calm. “He filled the rooms, then.”  
   
“Are you Tony’s dad? He mentioned you wanted them used. Yeah, they’re all rented. I’m lower ground, there’s a bunch of people living downstairs, and the new girl is moving in tomorrow, he said.”  
   
“Huh. And I have to hear this from you, because my _son,”_ he says, loudly, pointedly, head tipped towards the second floor window, “hasn’t got the balls to come down and tell me these things himself.”  
   
Steve doesn’t really know what to say. “He might be out,” he hazards.  
   
“He’s not out,” Tony’s dad snarls. “He hasn’t picked up his phone in weeks. We’re _worried._ His mother is worried. He’s avoiding us. _I pay for your education!,”_ Mr Carbonell screams up, “you can’t just hide from me!”  
   
“Would you like to come in?” Steve asks, politely. “  
   
   
   
“You have everything, Tony,” Steve says.  
   
He stares at him. “Excuse me?”  
   
“I said, you have everything. You have money. You have a home. You have an education. You’re smart, you’re handsome, you’re charming when you want to be. You have two parents who _adore_ you, who worship the ground you walk on, even if you don’t see eye to eye with your father. He pays for your – everything. He just wants you to be safe. There are people in this world – hell, there are people in this _building,_ who can’t even hope to have half of what you have by the time you die, and yet you complain, and sit up in your room, and talk about how much your life fucking sucks. If your life sucks, what’s mine?”  
   
“You don’t know shit,” Tony says shortly. “You don’t know me, or my life, at all.”  
   
  
   
“Well maybe if you weren’t so fucking awkward,” Tony sneers, “and didn’t embarrass yourself in front of every fucking woman you’ve ever talked to, we could get served, and go home.”  
   
“Okay,” Steve says evenly. “We can just cut out the middle man. I’m going. We won’t try this again, alright Tony? Is that what you want me to say?” He stands to leave, snatches up his cell, and turns to tell the waitress not to bother.  
   
Tony’s hand is clamping his wrist. “Don’t,” he bites out. “Don’t. Don’t go. I’m – I’m sorry.”  
   
He’s sorry.  
   
He’s _sorry._  
   
Steve turns. “Are you okay?” He asks, slowly.  
   
“I’m fine, I – don’t know what came over me. I freaked out on you, I’m _sorry._ There, I can say it. Happy?” He’s staring up at Steve, imploring, fixed smile on his face. It’s fake. It’s utterly fake, obviously fake. Tony used to be able to turn on charisma like a tap.  
   
Steve sits. “You look like shit,” he says bluntly. It feels good, even if it is vindictive.  
   
“Yeah,” Tony croaks, “I know.” He swallows again, hard; he’s pale, but his cheeks are flushed. “Think I’m getting sick.”  
   
“Maybe that’s it.”  
   
“Right. I – “ he folds his hands in his lap, picks at his nails. He looks small, hair unstyled and flat against his head, winter coat too big on his frame. “You know, it’s just – it’s been a hard year,” he tries, looking up, smiling weakly.  
   
“You’re Tony Stark,” Steve reminds him, “you don’t feel the full spectrum of human emotion. That’s for weak people, who don’t have money to make them feel good. Remember?”  
   
“Right,” Tony says. “Yeah.”  
   
And he says nothing else. He stares at the cheap table, the cracked linoleum on the floor. The harsh lights make him look washed out, sunken. Steve realises, suddenly, that he’s lost a lot of weight. More than he had when he came back, and considering he’s supposed to be getting better –  
   
Steve flags the waitress. “Two coffees,” he says, “and four stacks of pancakes.”  
   
“Four,” she says flatly. “You got some more people joining?”  
   
“No,” Steve says cheerfully, and the waitress accepts this. Whatever. It’s not like she cares.  
   
“You gonna eat four stacks?” Tony mumbles, disbelieving. “You trying to gain or something?”  
   
“ _You’re_ going to eat half,” Steve tells him.  
   
“I’m not – I don’t have an appetite.”  
   
“Yeah, I know. You’re skinnier than me.”  
   
Tony shuts his eyes, slumps forward. Huffs. “Whatever,” he agrees, waving a hand. “I might – I might just rest my head a bit, that alright? These lights are crazy bright.”  
   
He pillows his head on his folded arms, rests on the table.  
   
   
   
Steve rests his bag on the floor. “You’re just going to sit there?”  
   
“Yup,” Tony says slowly, arms slung over his eyes.  
   
“Aren’t you going home?”  
   
“Home?” Tony lifts his head. “Steve, I don’t _have_ a home. I don’t have a family.”  
   
“Stane,” Steve frowns. He was sure – he had been so sure Tony would be spending Thanksgiving with Stane.  
   
“He doesn’t celebrate. And he’s _not_ my family,” Tony mutters, aggravated. “I’m not that desperate.”  
   
“So you’re just gonna – “  
   
“Sit here? Yeah, that’s pretty much the shape of it, Steve. Fuck off, now.”  
   
   
   
Tony is still coughing, but this time he can’t catch his breath. Steve knocks; “You alright in there?”  
   
“I’m fine!” Tony croaks, panicked. “Don’t come in. Don’t come in – “  
   
Steve has to. He has to go in. He jams the lock, over and over until it loosens, cheap old shit that it is. Tony is shirtless, bent over the toilet basin. His mouth –  
   
Is bleeding. There’s blood, running down his chin. Saliva soaked red.  
   
Steve stares. “What the fuck?”  
   
It’s not the blood that shocks him. It’s not Tony face, pale and scared, lips cracked and dry. It’s not his greasy hair, or sweaty skin.  
   
It’s the bright blue light in the center of his chest.  
   
“Don’t look,” Tony pleads, on the verge of tears. “I’m – I just need a second, I’m fine.”  
   
“What is that?” Steve asks, voice low. “Tony, what did you do – “  
   
“I had to,” he rasps, “they made me. They hurt me, I mean, so I had to – I was hurt. I was going to die, I didn’t have a choice, but – you can’t tell anyone. You _can’t._ If anyone knows – “  
   
It’s a blue disc, set straight into his chest, metal. How deep does it go? How did it _get_ there? Does it hurt? What does it do? So many questions, and yet –  
   
The skin around it is red, inflamed. Infected, Steve’s mind supplies.  
   
“Mom!” He calls, before he’s even had time to think. “Mom! Tony’s sick, he needs – “  
   
“Don’t!” Tony cries, scrambling. He ends up on all fours, coughing blood, face screwed with pain, and Steve – doesn’t know what to do. He stands in the door, unable to help, to even understand –  
   
Mom rests a hand on her mouth, grips his arm. “Jesus,” she breathes, “a hospital, Steve call a fucking ambulance – “  
   
“Don’t,” Tony groans, curled on his side. “Please I – can’t explain, you _can’t._ You can’t let anyone see it’s – dangerous, you have no idea.”  
 

  
   
“Thank you,” Tony slurs, head falling forward, “thank you for helping me.” He coughs, and soaks his chin with bright red spittle.  
   
“Wipe that,” Mom tells him. “Get him some water.”  
   
“No no no,” Tony starts to protest, “no water. No water, please. I won’t – I can’t – “  
   
“You can swallow it, and spit out the blood,” Mom explains gently. “That’s all.”  
   
“I don’t want water,” Tony says, frantic. “I can’t, please don’t, please – “  
   
“Delirium,” Mom tells him, quietly. “Steve, he needs a hospital. I can clean him up – “  
   
“He says it’ll go.”  
   
“You believe him?”  
   
Steve sets his lips in a line. Tony cries out when Mom starts to scrape at infected skin. “Oh God,” he moans, “stop it, stop it, stop it – “  
   
“I can’t do this,” Mom says, throwing down her tools. “I’m sorry, I can’t, I – Steve I could kill him. How do we explain that? How could we explain a dead boy in our living room – “  
   
“If he says people can’t know, there’s a _reason,”_ Steve insists.  
   
“He needs a drip. He needs – he needs surgery, and pain relief, and – there has to be _someone_ we can call.”  
   
“There’s Stane,” Steve says. “Obadiah Stane. He’s the only one Tony ever mentions, I don’t think,” he dips his voice, “I don’t think he has anyone else.”  
   
Tony coughs again, wet and harsh and wracking his body. Steve can’t imagine the pain. He wonders how long he’s had – since the start? Since the moment he got out of that hellhole? All these months, lying in dark room, barely able to move with the agony –  
   
Stane knew. Stane did nothing.  
   
   
   
“Mom?” Tony rasps, watching his Mom with wonder. “How did you get here?”  
   
Mom says nothing. She plasters Tony’s head with a cold rag, clinically wipes his hair back from his head.  
   
“Mom?” Tony asks again, voice croaking. “Mom, I missed you. I thought – you were dead.” He coughs, and sucks in air with a wheeze. “I’m really hurt. Can you stay? Mom? Mom – wait! Don’t – “  
   
Tony is trying to push up, reaching up, but Mom is walking away. You don’t engage with delusions, Steve knows, but – would it be so bad –  
   
“Tony, you’re gonna hurt yourself,” Steve soothes, easing him back down. “Put your head here. That’s it. Lie back here.”  
   
“Why’s she leaving?” Tony asks. “Mom! _Mom!”_  
   
“That’s my mom,” Steve tells him. “I’m sorry. You’re mom – she is dead, Tony. I’m sorry.”  
   
“No,” Tony swears, shaking his head. “No, she was here, I saw her. I _saw_ her.”  
   
“She wasn’t,” Steve soothes. “It was just the fever. Shut your eyes, I promise it will help – “  
   
“You’re lying,” Tony accuses. “You’re lying, she was here. She was _here.”_  
   
“She wasn’t,” Steve says again. “This is a fever, and you’re hallucinating.”  
   
Tony –  
   
Tony just –  
   
Crumples.  
   
“I want my mom,” he sobs. “I want my mom, where is she?”  
   
Panic, sheer panic, and fear, and pain. Steve doesn’t know what to do, he doesn’t _know._ Now he wants his mom, but that isn’t fair to Tony, and sometimes you need to just fucking step up and help even if you have no idea _how._ Tony isn’t his asshole roommate here, he isn’t a distant, cold genius. He’s flesh and blood, scared, a friend, and –  
   
He’s just a kid, who’s in pain, has been in pain for so long, and has no one left in the world.  
   
“She’s coming,” Steve says softly. “She got held up, but she’s coming.”  
   
Tony huffs, breath hitching. “You sure?” He asks, eyes still full of tears. “She was here, I saw her.”  
   
“Yeah, and she was helping you, remember? But she’s just gone to the store to get you some medicine and now she’s held up. She’ll be back for you soon, but you should get some sleep first.”  
   
“You promise?” Tony croaks, “You swear on your life?”  
   
“I swear,” Steve lies. “You should get some sleep.”  
   
“Don’t let them come for me,” Tony begs, resting his head on the couch cushions. “I shouldn’t have told. I shouldn’t have told, please don’t let them come. I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry,” he babbles.  
   
“I won’t let them come for you.”  
   
“The water,” Tony tells him, eyes wide and earnest. “They’ll put me in it. I can’t take it any more.”  
   
“No water,” Steve tries to smile. “No worries. I’m here, right?”  
   
   
   
“I’m sorry,” Tony mumbles, voice thick. “I ruined your Thanksgiving.”  
   
“You nearly died.”  
   
“You haven’t seen your mom in ages. You wanted to come home, and I ruined it. I’m sorry.”  
   
“You saved my mom’s life last year. I think we’re equal.”  
   
Tony smiles, then swallows. Shuts his eyes. “I hate to ask,” he says, “but my throat’s mad dry…”  
   
“Water,” Steve supplies, filling him a glass from the jug Mom left. “Here.”  
   
“Thanks,” Tony croaks, drinking greedily. “I really am sorry. I’ll be out of your hair. I’ll go home, take some time out.”  
   
“Hah,” Steve says, “no, you won’t.”  
   
“What do you mean?”  
   
“My mom isn’t going to _let_ you leave. Are you crazy? You were coughing blood, the bathroom looks like a scene from a horror movie. You’re not going anywhere.”  
   
“Steve,” Tony implores, “I’ve wasted enough of your time – “  
   
“I want to know how you got it.”  
   
“Got it?”  
   
“The big hole in your chest. Why the fuck didn’t you say something, Tony?”  
   
“I can’t.”  
   
“Why not?”  
   
“Because – because the more people know, the more dangerous it gets.”  
   
“For who?”  
   
“Me. Everyone.”  
 

**Author's Note:**

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